Evil Eye

by Joyce Carol Oates

  All this crap maybe they’d loved him when you calculated the sum total but now it’s too late—Fuck it.

  In gloved hands carrying the ax into the house.

  Trying not to feel—this is weird—this is not-right—that the ax, in his hands, weighing down his arms, has a life of its own, he’d disturbed when he’d taken it down from the wall.

  First step is to “disarm” the burglar alarm. He’d practiced this. Entering the house even with your key when the alarm is set you have ten seconds—T E N S E C O N D S—to get to the little box on the kitchen wall and punch in the code.

  Part of the code was Dad’s birth date—1957.

  A few embarrassing times it had happened, alarms in the house had gone off by accident.

  The burglar alarm, the smoke detector. One was a high-pitched deafening siren, the other a deafening beep-beep-beep.

  Now it was crucial to move swiftly but not to hurry. Hurrying you only fuck things up.

  He’d taken three Rits. He’d had just a few beers at the Delt-Sig house. The pizza, with slimy-salty anchovies, was feeling heavy in his gut like it hadn’t been chewed—“masticated”—but was a single doughy lump.

  The Delt-Sigs who were Bart’s friends gave him a place to crash, anytime. It’s shitty you’re on probation this semester but there’s always a place here for you.

  Not the fraternity officers. They weren’t Bart’s particular friends. But the other guys, who’d pledged with him. And Bart’s Big Brother Shaugh.

  Why he wanted to repay them. Hell, he’d invite all of them.

  The next night, there’d be something to celebrate and Bart Hansen would be hosting the party. Pizza, beer, any kind of party snack—tacos, spicy dip—raw oysters on the half-shell—those big jumbo shrimps you dip in red sauce—thinking of it made his mouth water and his heart swell with pride the guys would be impressed, the girls would be impressed as hell—he’d get on the phone tomorrow afternoon and make more calls.

  He’d have the Visa Platinum then. Or—whatever. Maybe cash he’d hand to the delivery kid, see the look on his face.

  Delt-Sigs were known for their wild keg parties. On the Hill the frats with party reputations were Kappa Eps, TriThetas, PiBetas, and Delt-Sigs.

  From a block away you could hear the Delt-Sig house blaring music weekend nights—Metallica, Black Sabbath.

  At the Delt-Sig house was a prevailing smell of stale beer, stale piss, stale pizza crusts. Saturating the rugs, draperies, wallpaper.

  All he’s had to eat in twenty-four hours is pizza the guys ­ordered—not from DeMarco’s, which is high quality—pepperoni sausage swimming in grease, clotted cheese, anchovies—who the hell always orders anchovies?—Christ! He hates the things, spits them out if he can.

  He’s putting on weight, that’s a downer. Pale-doughy fat around his waist like his old man, he’s only twenty.

  Academic suspension for the spring semester since he’d flunked three courses last semester. The previous suspension, Bart’s sophomore year, was expunged from his university record.

  Expunged. He did owe that to Dad—Dad’s lawyer meeting with the university lawyer.

  One of the courses he’d supposedly flunked was Computer 101. This was a joke! The labs were taught by Pakistanis or Chinese speaking some gibberish you could not comprehend. And in Bart’s case, this Ahal, or Ahab, or Aheel had been biased against the white frat guys from the first meeting, Bart had protested to his adviser and to the chair of the computer department and to the dean of students and finally to his parents—hell of a lot of good the effort did him.

  Well—his mother had been sympathetic. But hell of a lot of good that did him.

  Gritting his teeth he’s so—intense. Excited, or angry. Might be the Ritalin, or adrenaline. Fast-running sensation like something red-hot molten in the veins—wild!

  Like ascending in a balloon—fast.

  His ninth birthday his parents had arranged a balloon ride for Bart and his little friends.

  So excited, but also scared. Too scared to climb into the basket with the other boys.

  So panicked he’d wet his God damn jeans. Crying and ashamed and Mommy had to comfort him while the other boys went up in the balloon squealing and shouting—so ashamed.

  Afterward no one spoke of it. But in his heart like a tiny thorn a hatred of Dad who’d made such a big deal of the fucking balloon ride.

  They hadn’t wanted him to have the Explorer either. Try to explain it was pre-owned not new!

  He’d gotten the best deal. Sexy-black, four-wheel drive, curve control. Seven-passenger capacity.

  Delt-Sig hosted winter-blast parties at Elkhorn Lake. For Adirondack roads in winter you need four-wheel drive and you need SUV-size seating.

  He’d planned: Wednesday. Middle of the week, and slow.

  Thursday was pretty much party night on the Hill—fraternity row. You couldn’t plan anything serious for that night.

  The party Bart would give, with not just pizzas and beer but fancier expensive party food, was the first step of reparation. For he was in debt to the Delt-Sig house, big time.

  He’d tried to explain to his parents.

  Mom had been sympathetic, more than Dad. But in the end, she’d let him down like the old man.

  All the guys said the same thing—your mom will side with you when your old man will not but in the end, including even if they’re divorced, your mom will side with the old man because that’s where the cash is.

  So meticulously he’d planned. Like for instance the pocket flashlight, the surveillance-disarming. But he’d made a major fuck-up not realizing at the time, but later, oh Christ he could kick himself in the ass he screwed up taking the thruway not back roads.

  Just didn’t think of it! Did not think of it.

  Fucking thruway where he used his E-ZPass. Fixed to the windshield. So automatic he never gave it a thought. His E-ZPass account was billed to his parents’ account, he never saw the bills and never gave it a thought.

  Nor the surveillance cameras on the thruway—never gave it a thought.

  Just didn’t think. That was what they’d been bitching about him—the past ten years—Just didn’t think did you!

  Well—Bart has thought now. Bart has thought very carefully. Bart has thought with the desperate cunning of a rat in a trap knowing he must free himself from the trap, or die.

  The ax just came to him. Planning I B S when he’d been a young kid he’d fantasized AK-47s, grenades, or machetes—firebombing the house—now he’s twenty years old, he’s more realistic.

  In the Delt-Sig house a couple of weeks ago he’d woken from a drunk sleep with a taste of vomit in his mouth like yellow acid and the first thing was—(must’ve been he’d dreamt this)—the ax hanging from a spike in the garage came floating to him, the idea of the ax, his hands reached out to grip the ax firmly as—(must’ve memorized this years ago)—he’d envisioned wresting the ax from his father’s hands when Dad was chopping firewood out back of the house thud! thud! thud! In the sharp wintry air his breath steaming. Dad had said his father, that is, Bart’s grandfather, used to chop firewood like this at the farm in Elmira and he, that is, Bart’s father, had always helped him, and how fast you work up a sweat, it’s great exercise.

  Want to spell me, try chopping a while you’ll get to like it, Bart.

  You might need gloves, though. Any gloves handy?

  Bart had said OK, Dad. Some other time.

  Laugh-out-loud, such bullshit.

  It was always like that: Bart’s father trying to coerce him into doing something he used to do when he was a kid, so Bart is supposed to fall in line and do it, too; and if he doesn’t, or won’t, Dad gets pissed and looks at him that way.

  Home invasion like in Connecticut: two guys break into a suburban house, ter
rorize the mother and two teenaged daughters, rape and beat them, and tie them to a bed and sprinkle gasoline and light it—house goes up in a blaze! They didn’t get the father, just the mother and girls. Stupid fuckers, ex-cons, got caught.

  A few years ago there’d been thefts at 29 Juniper Drive also at neighbors’ homes—25 Juniper Drive, 31 Juniper Drive—­computers, electronic equipment, video games, silver candlestick holders—but the perpetrator had been identified, the stolen items returned or anyway most of them, financial reimbursement made, no charges filed with police.

  Negotiating with the neighbors not to press charges. Bart’s mother had been so ashamed—she’d said, how many times. Sure, and Bart was sorry, too—he’d needed the money bad, junior year in high school. Bart’s father had never forgiven him, just one more fucking thing he’d held against him like the check for the Explorer—already, a thousand times he’d brought up that—throwing it in his face every chance he could though Bart had said he was sorry how many fucking times, did they want him to immolate himself?

  He’d had a drug problem, high school. He’d gone to rehab. It was OK. The family judge, a female, was understanding. And Mom was understanding—as long as this never happens again, Bart.

  He’d swore, it would never happen again.

  That crummy crap he’d taken from his parents and the neighbors hadn’t been worth the effort and the risk for less than five hundred bucks and the dope he’d blown it on hadn’t made any special impression on the people he’d hoped to impress—for sure, that shit would never happen again.

  And yes, he was sorry.

  It’s like the ax is leading him. Upstairs.

  Gripped in his (gloved) hands. Metallica screaming in his ears Die, die, die my darling.

  Past the doorway of his (darkened) room. And the door is partway open like someone is inside—who?

  Soon, he won’t remember that punk kid. Scared of his shadow practically, fucking ashamed.

  In a weird movie—like Inception—could be Bart Hansen is in his room, asleep in his bed and all outside is his dream unfolding.

  Like Matrix. Bourne Conspiracy. Some kind of mind-fuck. You can argue you are not responsible.

  You can argue you are not you.

  It’s an idea: his generation. Nobody is who they’re supposed to be—who older people want them to be. A click, a twist of the dial—you’re gone.

  At their (closed) door. As a little kid he’d stood outside this door plenty of times.

  Just reaches out, grips the doorknob and—turns it. . . .

  Opens the door and—

  Like some kind of explosion like a—suicide bomb—the door is pushed, there’s his father confronting him, Dad in pajama bottoms and no top so his hairy-fatty chest is exposed and his face livid with shock, rage—Bart! What the hell are—

  Like Dad did not see the ax for Christ’s sake.

  Or seeing the ax discounted it thinking The kid will screw up, the kid can’t do a fucking thing right.

  This loud voice like a bullhorn in Bart’s ears, a shock after so much quiet, almost he’d come to think this was in fact his dream, and nobody in it except him. Then this loud-mouth furious man yelling at him, demanding of him what the hell he thinks he is doing creeping into the house is he intending to steal from them again, God damn says Dad he’s going to call the police—

  And there is the mother in bed a few yards away, sitting up confused—and seeing them struggling in the doorway, Bart in black hoodie and black jeans, his face exposed when his father had switched on the overhead light—the ax between them, lifting and plunging with its own terrible energy—she opens her mouth to scream—

  So it happens for all his meticulous planning Bart has no choice bringing the sharp side of the ax down against Dad’s skull, Dad’s furious face, as the older man sinks at once like a felled tree, all resistance gone, in an instant gone, a look of perplexity and wonder in his bleeding face, both his hands clutching at his son who flails blindly at him with the ax—Get away, get away from me—sharp edge of the ax, blunt edge of the ax, sharp edge, blunt edge, as Bart swings blindly until on the floor the bleeding figure is tangled in Bart’s feet—he’s panicked kicking free Oh Christ!—what has happened he didn’t intend this. A deafening roar in his ears but he knows he has to get to the woman in the bed, that is the next step, he must execute the second step, bring down the woman struggling to escape from the bed and into the bathroom where she will lock the door and he will have to shred the door with the ax—rushing at her, jumping up onto the bed as he has not done since he’s been a young child daringly climbing up onto his parents’ bed and bouncing on it now swinging the ax at the woman in a wide careening arc—missing her, almost losing his balance—­panting—not the sharp side of the weapon but the blunt side, Bart can’t bring himself to strike his mother with the terrible sharp edge of the ax for she is begging him No Bart no honey please no for he’d gotten along mostly OK with Mom, mainly he was pissed she hadn’t defended him enough against his father, God damn she’d let him down too many times culminating in the loan fiasco for the SUV, she’d helped him with Delt-Sig dues and fees, some other debts he’d owed, from her own checking account and the father hadn’t known, or hadn’t been supposed to know, but somehow that got screwed up, the father had seen the bank statement and called Bart on his cell leaving messages increasingly threatening, speaking of the police, taking the matter to the police so Bart has no choice but to act as he is acting—no choice as a trapped rat has no choice—but the fact is: he’d stunned them first with the ax, blunt side against their skulls to stun them like you would stun a cow before slaughter so it’s a merciful death, they never felt a thing.

  Next he knew the heavy ax had slithered from his hands. Had the bloodied ax head flown off?

  Just the wood handle in his hands, he uses to push at the—the thing on the floor—the man with the split skull, gushing blood—and the thing on the bed—he will cover with bedclothes. Dragging sheets and blankets from the bed, dragging a blanket over the thing on the floor scarcely recognizable as his father, face split in bloody halves like a mangled pumpkin, and the lacerated neck spouting blood—dragging a blanket to hide it. And the other—the woman—half-naked, fleshy and smelling of bowels—an alarming stench—part of her upper skull missing—right eye mashed out of its socket—still she’s begging No honey no p-please noooo—blood like a great black rose enveloping her where she has fallen slantwise on the bed, already the bedclothes are dark-stained, he has to swallow hard not to puke up his guts dragging a quilt over the woman, to hide her; the quivering body, the shuddering female body, he places pillows, satin pillows, and from her bathroom, which is adjoining the bedroom, he grabs as many towels as he can, heaped atop her in layers.

  Die die die my darling. Don’t utter a single word.

  He’s panting, as if he’s been sprinting a mile race. His gut aches.

  It would begin now: the ceaseless sensation of movement, motion, as of hot gaseous liquids, in his lower gut.

  Ceaseless seething, fizzing. At first it was, like, his stomach was growling—which was a kind of joke—a kid joke, like ­farting—then, as hours passed, days, eventually weeks, gas pains like knife stabs coming one-two-three in quick sensation so he felt the blood drain from his face, so he almost fainted. What has happened to me, something is eating me from inside—it was like something had burrowed into him, a snake, a giant slug, rapacious and insatiable eating him from inside.

  The weird thing was, the ax had taken on its own willful life almost immediately swinging out of his control, careening in wider and more extravagant arcs than Bart would have been capable of until the ax head flew off the handle and he’d dropped the handle in horror on the floor amid the tangled bedclothes, bloodied bodies and one of them—it had to be Louisa—­moaning from beneath the quilt, pillows and towels he’d heaped on her quivering bo
dy in the hope that she would suffocate and die faster and pass out of her misery.

  For another weird thing was, Bart would never share with anyone, once he’d used the ax on both his parents and the ax head had flown off the handle, he could not strike them again not even with the handle. He could not.

  No fingerprints. The assailant had worn gloves.

  No physical evidence. The assailant had acted swiftly and shrewdly and had left no sign of himself behind.

  Obviously a break-in, attempted burglary that had gone wrong.

  Whoever the killer was, he’d decided not to take anything.

  (For Bart reasoned: whatever he took from his parents’ house if he tried to sell it, or barter it, or pawn it—he’d be caught. That was a major blunder he wasn’t going to make.)

  It was a part of the execution plan—I B S—to change his clothes after.

  Shower, quick. In his father’s bathroom not his own for he knows that would be a mistake—shower floor damp, towels damp, sink recently used. All he takes from his own room—from his bureau, his closet—is a change of clothes—dark clothes to replace the filthy clothes he’s going to wrap in a bundle and drop in a Dumpster at a lonely exit on the thruway on the drive home. (He hasn’t planned the exit. That, he will leave to chance. But it will turn out to be exit 19 at Skaggsville almost exactly equidistant from East Rensselaer and Syracuse, a rest-stop Dumpster, which will be a tactical error since such Dumpsters are emptied less frequently than, for instance, a Dumpster behind a McDonald’s or Wendy’s, and Rensselaer police will discover the bundle within forty-eight hours.) There’s video games he’d have liked to take back to Syracuse with him from a shelf in his room, Dead Space 2, Portal 2, and Brink, which is awesome but no better not—he’s superstitious. Doesn’t want to do anything in this room beyond the bare necessity of getting clean clothes, which is why there will be no physical evidence.